


With Your Heartbeat (i count the seconds)

by Celebrimbor1999



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF!John, Day Five: Sound, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hurt!John, Hurt/Comfort, Internet medical knowledge, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Violence, Mycroft tries to be helpful, POV Sherlock Holmes, Writers month 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 20:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20120989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celebrimbor1999/pseuds/Celebrimbor1999
Summary: A simple case went horribly wrong. Sherlock didn’t realise how comforting the sound of John’s heartbeat was until it stopped.Feat. Sherlock Mind RamblesWriter’s Month 2019 Prompt Five: Sound





	With Your Heartbeat (i count the seconds)

It was just a routine case. Just a normal serial killer that the police were too stupid to catch. Just another man with childhood trauma resulting in homicidal, arsonist tendencies. He was meant to be carrying a fire-starter, maybe a torch or some other blunt-force object.

He wasn’t meant to be carrying a knife.

That’s all Sherlock could think, as he sat in the back of the ambulance, watching the paramedics restart John’s heart.

He wasn’t meant to be carrying a knife.

*******

“He’s getting away!” John said as they reached yet another crowded intersection. Even Sherlock’s superior height didn’t give him any advantage in keeping track of their wayward suspect.

“Doesn’t matter. We know where he’s going.” Sherlock began to stride determinedly through the crowd. Running right now would just cause more issues.

“We do?” John was making better headway than he was – probably due to his more solid build.

“Oh do keep up John.” They escaped the crowd and began to run through the back allies of London. “He’ll be going to the same place he always goes.”

His initial dumping ground. The place where he takes his kills, where he burns them and the surroundings without any fear of getting caught, of attracting attention. It’s incredible how easy it is to get access to warehouses along the Thames. (The mud on his boots the smell of the river and the fish he’s a dock worker no fire on the boats such a fascination with --)

There!

“Around the side. Catch him as he passes through,” Sherlock calls to John, who simply nods as he circles the shipping container (so good to have a partner who listens. And carries a gun) Sherlock himself follows the suspect down into the pseudo-ally made by the containers (destined for America, given the number system and logos painted onto the sides). It’s dark, despite being mid-morning, and the arsonist is sure, confident. He’s been through here before. But he’s never been followed.

The figure of Captain Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusilier stuck an impressive pose on most days. Framed by the shipping containers with the sun to his back, casting his face in shadow, it was enough to halt a homicidal arsonist.

“Jared Kincaid, stand down.”

He stood a scant few meters away from John. “I’d suggest movin’ man – my fight ain’t with you.”

“I’d suggest turning yourself in, Mr Kincaid. The police aren’t far away.” Sherlock spoke up, keeping an eye on his pockets. The left hand side held a cylindrical shape – probably his accelerant (the scent of gasoline left at the crime scene a common accelerant curious how he managed to create such a large flame enough to cook a human body such a small bottle of accelerant couldn’t be enough to do it must have more at his safe space keeps some on him as a reminder? Token? Brings to mind possible experiments but John doesn’t like uncontrolled flames in the apartment even though I’d have it completely under control--)

The man spun around with a curse. “Holmes! Sherlock Holmes!”

“Yes, that is my name. Don’t wear it out.” Sherlock drawled, striding forward. “Now you have an accelerant in your left-hand pocket, but where is your lighter? Can’t be a common store-bought plastic one, that wouldn’t be good enough for you, no, it would have to be something bigger. Better. Perhaps…”

Now that the man was facing him, he could see the rectangular shape in his coat’s breast pocket. (Vaguely he registered John stepping closer to the suspect) “Perhaps that magnesium flare you have in your coat. Did you steal it from one of the ships – no, you would have purchased it, your mother’s upbringing wouldn’t allow you to even consider theft – from a camping store then, purchasing their better flares. Is it a reusable one?”

“Shut up!” The suspect was angry. Very angry. And very close.

Gasoline spilled on his Belstaff. A hand swung at his face. Sherlock dodged, drove a responding fist into his solar plexus. The man dropped and stepped back. A low kick aimed at Sherlock’s knees. A dodge. A lucky shot to Sherlock’s shoulder, driving him back. The smell of smoke. Sudden heat.

“Sherlock!” John put the man down with a few well-placed blows, before running to his side to struggle with his coat. “You’re on fire!”

“Stop stating the obvious John!” Sherlock snapped, beating at the fire that still smouldered on his shirt sleeve. There was more accelerant in the bottle than one would assume. It was enough to seep through his Belstaff and onto his shirt. He took a sniff. “Hmmm, not just gasoline then. Definitely another kind of accelerant mixed in, perhaps acetone? Or turpentine? There’s a hint of kerosene in there too…” Glancing around, Sherlock caught sight of the fire starter. (A magnesium flare with a silver casing, not the right shade to suggest relative newness but with enough usage stains to suggest being used for camping, a hand me down. Possible previous owner – the father maybe there’s more to his motive check out the mother possible domestic violence –)

He was pushed to the side. An oatmeal-coloured jumper filled his vision. A pained cry. A small moan. A thud as a body hit the ground.

John stood before his with one hand pressed to his side. Red was seeping through the wool. At his feet curled the suspect, bruise already forming on the side of his head. He was unconscious. John was bleeding. There was a blade sticking out of his side. John was bleeding.

“John!” Sherlock caught him as he began to crumble.

“Ambulance,” John rasped out, “Ambulance. Liver. Internal bleeding. Shock. Gonna shock.”

Scrabbling for his coat, Sherlock pulled out his phone and called Lestrange. “Call an ambulance,” He spoke over the detective, “John has been stabbed in his upper right abdomen, with internal bleeding. He says he’s going into shock. Get here now.”

Moments later Lestrade appeared, phone still held to his ear. Behind him, Donovan contacted paramedics. “Damn it John, when you disarm a suspect you don’t stick the knife inside youself for safekeeping.” The detective griped. He removed his jacket and wrapped it around the hilt, doing a better job staunching the bleeding than Sherlock had been doing with hands alone. “How far away is that ambulance Sally?”

“You’re looking at about another three minutes boss.” She knelt by the suspect and none-to-gently flipped him onto his back, cuffing him. “So who put him down? John or the freak?”

“That’s John’s handywork, Sergeant Donovan. Not that he would have had to if you actually did your job.” Sherlock bit out. “Perhaps if you spent a little less time scrubbing Anderson’s floor and more time applying yourself as a detective—"

“Enough Sherlock,” Lestrade cut off any argument before it could start. “Sally, go and guide the paramedics. Sherlock, help me with John. We’re going to get him more comfortable.”

John, for his part, was just trying to keep his eyes open. They scrunched up in pain as his head was lifted onto a folded Belstaff, and lids flickered as Sherlocks hand found his and squeezed. John squeezed back. “Next time, I’ll let him stab you,” he joked breathily, “Ruined my favourite jumper.”

Sherlock just stayed silent, even as the paramedics arrived and loaded him into the ambulance.

*******

“Clear!” One paramedic called, pressing the paddles into John’s chest. A jerk. Sudden inhale.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

“We’ve got a pulse – go, go, go!”

The blood on Sherlock’s skin grew tacky and bound his and John’s hands together – he shifted up two fingers enough to press against his pulse point. The sound of the heart monitor was comforting, but nothing was better than the steady beat against his fingers.

It meant that John was alive.

Even as they reached the hospital, even as he was drawn away by a well-meaning nurse to have his hands cleaned while John was ushered into surgery – all he could think about was the pulse he’d felt under his fingers.

John was alive.

Three hours later, he was taken to a private room. The surgery had gone fine, according to the doctor. None of the liver needed to be removed, his heart rate had remained steady, he’d be up and moving within a few months.

Sherlock heard and organised these words in his mind palace, like he did with everything, but he didn’t consciously register it. All his focus was on John – the heart monitor beeping at regular intervals, the sound of calm breathing, the unnatural stillness of anaesthesia-induced sleep.

“He’ll need another blanket,” He heard himself say distantly, “He gets cold easily.”

(There was something about being so nice to his husband, but Sherlock didn’t think on it more. Probably something to do with Mycroft’s meddling, sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted, should focus more on his diet --)

He sat in the chair beside the bed, took John’s hand, and settled in to wait.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP… BEEP… BEEP BEEP BEEP

John’s eyelids flickered. Sherlock sat up, having already registered the changes in breathing, in position and muscle tension before the heart monitor picked up the shift.

“Oh he fucking got me, didn’t he,” John groaned before he’d even fully opened his eyes. “Should have given him a second go round the head.”

“Yes, perhaps next time you could get us _both _out of the way of the knife.” Sherlock drawled. His condescending tone was belied by his still-tight grip on John’s hand.

“Maybe next time we could actually go on that vacation and not take ‘just one more case.’” John squeeze back.

“Next time,” Sherlock said before leaning in close, “You could make sure you _actually_ disarm the suspect before doing anything else.”

“You were on fire!” John replied, “You were literally burning you—” And then John’s mouth was occupied. Sherlock kissed like he did everything else – with passion, heat and a hint of desperation (he was hurt he was stabbed his heart stopped he almost died John can’t die John’s alive John--)

Sherlock pushed himself up and away, panting slightly. “You – you’ve just come out of surgery.”

“Oh you prat, come back here!” John kissed like he did everything else – with a thoroughness that made Sherlock’s toes curl, strong and warm (John was always warm except in the hospital he’s cold he always gets cold fingers he was cold cold cold he’s not meant to be cold John’s warm John--)

The heart monitor beeped faster, and Sherlock pulled away. “You’ve just come out of surgery,” he said again.

John sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

Then the doctor was there, and a nurse, and through it all, Sherlock sat with the sound of John’s heartbeat in his ears. His favourite sound.

(“Did – did that nurse just call you my husband? Did we get married and I just forgot?”

“No, but Mycroft may have stuck his nose into things. The nurse was unusually accommodating about allowing me into your room.”

“Do you think he found out about the engagement?”

“Most probably.”

“But I gave the rings to Greg!”

“Who?”

“Oh Sherlock…”)

**Author's Note:**

> And this is my submission for Writers Month 2019. First time writing a Sherlock fic, so I’m not entirely sure about my characterisation… All medical knowledge in here was found on the internet, so if something is wrong, I’m sorry, but I’m not a doctor. Hope you enjoyed it!


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